A Thing Provoked
by Anonymous Plume
Summary: Sherlock and the Met are baffled by the strange deaths popping up around London. Of course, John knows what killed them, and when he finds whoever it is that was foolish enough to leave their kind exposed, he'll kill them, too. Besides, rogue newborns are far too dangerous, and he won't allow them to live in this city while his beloved does. *Part 2 of the Dark Things series*
1. A Threat To His Claim

**A/N:** Oops, plot happened. Also, if you've not read part one, "The Most Beautiful Thing," you really, really should.

* * *

Drops of rain patter against the glass of the charming bedroom in a first floor flat in Fitzrovia, and John eyes the body of its former occupant staring up at him with distaste. It isn't that she's particularly gruesome or vile; as far as crime scenes go this one is rather boring. Had she not been lying there on the floor, pale as snow, he might have felt quite at ease in this homey room. Instead, his hackles have been raised since they walked through the front door.

Sherlock is hovering over her now, magnifying glass out, peering at the gaping wound at her thigh and making small noises every few seconds.

Lestrade stands beside John, eyes narrowed and shaking his head. "I just don't get it," he says for the fifth time. "How in the hell does a victim bleed out from a wound like that but not leave any blood behind?" He frowns and glances around the space. "Not a spec."

Somewhere behind them, Anderson is scanning the room with a UV light and grumbles, "Not for lack of trying."

"Hush," Sherlock snaps. The detective pushes a gloved finger gently against the edges of the wound, and leans in to peer closer. John has an uncomfortable urge to grab him by the collar and drag him out and away. Back home. Where he will suck bruises onto his skin and growl at anyone who so much as looks up the stairs towards their flat.

John drags his gaze away from the bloodless girl. He has one or two ideas of how such a thing could occur. He clears his throat and shuffles in an attempt appear baffled. "She must have been killed somewhere else."

"Her landlord said she hadn't left the house in two days."

John shrugs. "He must have been mistaken."

"Nope," Sherlock says. He rises to his feet and stares at the vic, Liz Danfield, 31, and frowns. "She was definitely murdered here."

"Then how– "

"I'm not..." Sherlock begins but hesitates, as if pained. He pops his mini-glass shut and shoves it in his pocket. "You've checked the pipes?"

"Anderson's team are checking now."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and glares at Anderson's back. "They've been here for hours. How long does it take to check the pipes beneath a bath?"

Anderson sighs, as if genuinely apologetic, and meets Sherlock's eyes. Since their little heart-to-heart, the pair tolerate each other much better now, but it seems as if they will forever be not quite on the same level.

"They're trying as quickly as they can. The building is on the registry as historic, so a licensed plumber needs to– "

"Yes, yes," Sherlock flaps at him and turns towards Lestrade. "Text me if they find any trace of blood." He then turns to John and looks into his eyes for a beat. "Taxi," he murmurs, then steps around him and out the room.

John is on his heels a heartbeat later. There isn't a chance in hell that Sherlock is getting more than a foot away from him until they're well away from this place. As they exit the front door, John's nostrils flare at the scent left behind on the jamb, and he wrinkles his nose. He has half a mind to swipe his palm over it, but that would be inciting trouble. He instead runs his palm over Sherlock's back, and then up briefly to his neck. His partner turns with a questioning glance, but John simply gives him a tight-lipped smile and subtly escorts him to the kerb.

They are in a taxi and back home within 15 minutes.

Sherlock watches him constantly.

Has had for a few days now. Ever since John's little confession. As predicted, his detective has indeed mulled over this supposed revelation, and as predicted hasn't taken it quite as seriously as he meant it. But, that was supposed to happen. John thinks that with the arrival of this new case Sherlock will forget it entirely, and John will go back to quietly keeping his desires at bay. He has enjoyed indulging it, though, while it's fresh on Sherlock's mind. Letting his stares linger, significantly. Letting his dark self peer out more frequently. Just enough to catch Sherlock's surprise. As if he'd forgotten, then gets a glimpse and is reminded again.

 _'I want to kill you.'_

Sherlock, adorable thing, has been switching between confusion and playfulness at John's admission. John reckons he thinks it's a game. Perhaps a bit of roleplay between them. Of course, Sherlock is not familiar with such intimate games, and pairing it with this sort of dark subject matter, well, it has the detective thoroughly out of his comfort zone. But, bless him, he's embracing it. John is almost sorry to let him think it a game.

Well, he reasons, for now it probably is. John has no intention of killing him quite yet. There are still many discussions to have and layers to get through, first.

Including this new case.

From the moment they'd left the scene, to the time they'd walked into their sitting room, John has kept a hand on him at all times. When Sherlock sheds his coat, he reluctantly releases him and goes to sit in his chair. His thoughts are back on the crime scene. Or, more specifically, her killer and how much he does not want Sherlock working this case.

He's been sitting there, ruminating, for more than a bit when he registers a shift of air. Sherlock is beside him, staring down with a furrowed brow.

"You're being awfully quiet."

John blinks and then softens his expression immediately. "Isn't that usually my line?"

Sherlock tilts his chin and hums.

John shrugs. "Well, you usually demand silence at the start of a case, anyway."

Sherlock's eyes dart to the kitchen and back. "No tea."

John feels the back of his neck heat. Ah. Break in routine.

Sherlock settles into his own chair and steeples those long fingers before his lovely lips. John holds perfectly still. Is perfectly amiable.

"No tea," Sherlock murmurs again. "That crime scene bothered you. Why? It's hardly the strangest one we've worked."

John chuckles, flexing his left hand. "Isn't that the truth?" He abruptly stands and heads for the kitchen. "If it's tea you wanted, all you had to do was say," he calls over his shoulder.

He flits about the kitchen, feeling eyes on the back of his neck the entire time. This he ignores, hoping that Sherlock will veer back onto the case and leave off pestering John. He _hopes_ this will happen, but _knows_ it won't. John sighs as he stirs Sherlock's cuppa. He definitely is not ready to have this conversation. He knows what killed that girl, just as he knows he needs to cover for it. And when he finds whoever it was that was foolish enough to leave her exposed, he'll kill them, too.

Besides, if there is a rogue vampire out there, killing irresponsibly, he won't allow them to live while his beloved does. Too risky.

Waiting any longer will only peak Sherlock's curiosity, so John sighs and returns to the sitting room with their mugs. It isn't blood, but John does truly love a good cup of tea. Vampire though he is, he was born English, after all.

He crosses the room, noting the pale eyes following him, and pauses between the long legs spread out halfway to his own chair. Sherlock stares up at him. John arches a playful brow.

"Your majesty," he smirks, setting the mug down beside him with a soft thump.

Sherlock's eyes flick to the tea and back. He removes his fingers a few centimetres from his mouth. "No, thank you."

John's lips thin and he frowns. "Do not waste perfectly good tea. Drink it." He turns away and carefully seats himself across from his prat of a lover, and glares.

Distraction.

John takes a delicate sip, savours the lovely pop of spice and bergamot, and settles in. "Right. Why do you think she was murdered there if there's no blood."

Sherlock's eyes narrow at him briefly, but then he takes in a huge lungful of air and noisily releases it. His arms flop to the rests framing him, and he throws his head back, all at the same time. John smothers a grin. Such a drama queen.

"The scuff marks, the boot prints, the carpet fibres under her nails, her sheets."

John takes another sip and nods. Barring the fibres, he'd noted the same things. More than anything though, the awful scent of her killer and the obvious fact that she'd been completely exsanguinated, through the thigh and immaturely covered, gave it away. That and the scent of sex. John knows how it happened, but he's curious as to what excuse Sherlock has created.

"Okay," he says. "So... yeah, I'm not getting it. Take me through it."

Sherlock raises his head, limbs outstretched like a starfish. "How do _you_ think it happened?"

John snorts.

Sherlock sits up a fraction straighter. "I'm serious. I'd like your medical opinion."

John takes a moment for his tea. "Well, I didn't get to examine the body, did I? I couldn't reliably say."

Sherlock frowns. John's eyes go wide.

"Because someone stalked off the scene before I could have a look!"

Sherlock groans and drops his head back. "Fetishist."

John lets the heat of the mug seep through his palms and waits. A stirring of dread twists in his gut. He clears his throat. "Fetish?"

Sherlock nods, then audibly winces. He sits back up, rubbing his neck. "You can't have missed that she was drained of blood, and there were teeth marks at her femoral artery, which was the only wound visible on her body."

"You didn't even check her back. You can't know that."

Sherlock fluffs his hair and huffs. "No bruising or blood evident on her sides, near her back."

John opens his mouth to argue but Sherlock holds up a palm.

"The only physical trauma was at her thigh, and there were sloppily covered human teeth marks at the site. Someone drained her, very carefully, probably with some sort of medical equipment, and then acted upon his fetishised desires and bit the wound he'd inflicted at her artery. Possibly he ingested a small quantity of blood, and then ejaculated over her corpse either directly after or during." He looks up. "Semen on the floor between and on her thighs."

John feels his slowly beating heart pulse excitedly and he licks his lips. Sherlock's deep voice is inciting images that make John's teeth ache. "Is that so."

Sherlock blinks at the deepness of his voice and he slowly nods. "This isn't his first kill, most likely. It was too neat." He shakes his head. "No, the means of exsanguination was neat - the actual kill was not. He's moderately inexperienced, but practised enough not to leave behind much evidence."

 _'No shit.'_

Sherlock's right leg begins to jiggle, and his fingers tap against the armrests. John sets his mug down and resists the urge to straddle him and suck at his neck. All that manic energy flowing through him... he is nearly irresistible. And all this talk of blood? John will most certainly have to go hunting later tonight.

John twists in his chair, subtly adjusting himself, and watches Sherlock's leg bob up and down.

"Laptop," Sherlock says. Or, rather demands.

"It's right beside you, get it yourself."

"John," Sherlock whines.

"Jesus," John breathes, but nevertheless rocks up to fetch the computer. "You're a lazy sod." He drops the thing unceremoniously into Sherlock's lap, who clucks his tongue in affront. John smacks his thigh and settles back into his chair.

While Sherlock's nimble fingers are typing, John drinks his tea. He thinks about how quickly Sherlock accepted the theory of exsanguination with blood play fetishing. The man has no idea just how close he is to the truth, though. John runs a finger along his lips, dead giveaway, that, and thinks of how to redirect Sherlock's attention.

"We," Sherlock says, interrupting his thoughts, "are going clubbing tonight, John." He sets aside the laptop, and John stares, nonplussed.

"Come again."

Sherlock smirks. "I'm not repeating myself."

"Yes you are. We're in our 40s– " Sherlock scoffs, offended, "or pushing them in your case, and we don't dance." John's neck prickles with uncomfortable awareness. He suspects he knows precisely where this is leading, and it is nothing good.

Sherlock's lids lower, he pouts his lips and sinuously rises from his chair. John's cock gives another interested twitch, and he watches as Sherlock slowly minces his way towards John's chair. He huffs in surprise when he suddenly gets a lapful of sinfully writhing detective.

"What was it you were saying?" Sherlock bats his eyelashes, the little tart, and rubs his lips against John's jaw. "Something about not being desirable enough to be in a club?" Sherlock rolls his hips down onto John's thickening erection.

"Okay, point made," John grits out. He slides his hands down to grip Sherlock's hips, keeping him exactly where he is, and thrusts up. Sherlock bites his lip with a wicked smirk.

John's brows raise. "You're actually serious."

Sherlock wets his lips and mouths at John's ear. His sweet, hot breath rolls across his skin, and John shivers at the scent of him, of his neck so close to his mouth. He bites his tongue because he knows where Sherlock wants them to go. God. John is going to get them into trouble. Well, no, Sherlock is going to get them into trouble, which will, in turn, lead to John getting them into trouble.

"There's a very specific club. It caters to..." Sherlock drags his mouth from John's ear and lingers above the pulse in his neck while John squeezes two handfuls of plush arse and grinds up into him. "...the type of clientele who fetishise the drinking..." Sherlock licks a stripe up John's neck, "of blood."

John immediately buries his face into his lover's neck and tastes his own blood from biting clear through his tongue. He moans and rocks up into Sherlock's pelvis. The heady combination of blood and Sherlock's scent is doing amazing things to his head.

"God, John," Sherlock breathes. His eyes are dilated, leaving only a thin ring of blue-grey, and John immediately decides he's going to fuck him right in this chair. If they're going to the vamp club, John is going to have his madman absolutely _covered_ in his scent. There will be no confusing who he belongs to.

"Trousers, off," John says. This is not a request.

"Case..." Sherlock protests half-heartedly, but his hands are already going to his belt. Fuck Sherlock's rules; they're going to break them this time.

"You heard me," John rumbles. He jerks the hem of Sherlock's fancy shirt out of his trousers, and groans at the flash of pale skin. "If I'm going to have," he rubs his straining cock along the underside of Sherlock's thigh, "a bunch of blood-obsessed crazies making eyes at you," Sherlock gasps as John runs his nails down over his clothed chest, "then I'm going fuck you just to make sure you remember who you belong to."

Sherlock whines and scrabbles at the buttons of his dress shirt, flinging it off behind him. John dips into his pants and pulls out his fully-erect cock. His mouth waters over how much he'd love to suck that down right now, but he suspects they don't have time. This is going to be quick and dirty. It's going to be perfect. Sherlock works John's shirt off, arching his neck while John kisses and (lightly) bites at his throat. He does some sort of contortionist act, and then his pants and trousers are sailing across the room. John lifts his hips then to allow Sherlock to tug his own trousers off, but skips the pants, opting instead to pull his dick out over the band.

"You were going to fuck me?" he asks, half-choked on his own words. His lips are getting redder, puffier, and he dives in for another kiss. John opens wide for him, latching onto his tongue and sucking it deep into his mouth. Sherlock moans and clutches at his shoulders, pumping his hips and rubbing his erection against John's stomach.

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you all right. But first," John grabs Sherlock hand and slides it back behind him. Over the curve of that insanely gorgeous arse. "You're gonna finger yourself open." Sherlock's throat bobs in a swallow and he pants against John's lips. "And you'd better do it quickly because I won't wait very long."

Sherlock nods obediently and fishes into side of the cushion for a small bottle of lube. He wastes no time flicking it open, and moans at the feel of his fingers breeching himself. John gnaws on that lovely jaw, nips his way back down Sherlock's perfect throat. His cock is already leaking and leaving trails against Sherlock's chest where it's bent low while deft fingers work himself open.

"Good boy," John whispers, laving his tongue over Sherlock's frantic pulse. He slides a hand round Sherlock's bum to feel how many fingers he's got stuffed inside his arse, and groans to feel two slipping and sliding past that tight rim. He slips one in alongside the others, and Sherlock breathes out a deep sigh, slowly taking the extra digit deep inside.

"Oh god, fuck, do it. I'm ready," he pants.

"Yeah," John soothes, reaches between them to line his cock up. His fat head circles Sherlock's rim, teasing for a moment before sinking in. He pushes and pushes, barely giving his lover any time to adjust. His eyes roll at the feel of Sherlock's fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders. He hopes it bruises. Sherlock is never nearly rough enough with him, but he knows they'll get there.

"Fuck you feel so good," John says between clenched teeth. He reaches a hand up to pull Sherlock in by the back of his neck and smashes their lips together. A velvet-y tongue snakes in and John shivers at the taste of his mouth, his tongue moving in time with his cock sliding into sweet, tight, heat. Sherlock's arse deserves to have poetry written about it.

Sherlock arches his back and rolls his hips down, up, and circles when John bottoms out. He's a fucking porno when he gets this worked up, and John feels a fierce stab of pride at ticking his boxes in a few short minutes. A nice, little energetic fuck to make him sore, and sated, and claimed. Speaking of.

John releases his mouth and nudges his face aside with his nose to get at his throat again. He latches on, pulling a circle of creamy flesh into the heat of his mouth, and he _sucks_. He sucks, and bites, and licks, and he swears he can just taste the slightest metallic tang at the blood that rushes up to quickly purple his skin. He chose a spot that will be visible above the collars he never buttons anyway, because he'll be damned if anyone, groupie or vampire, will have any excuse to touch. what. isn't. _theirs_.

Sherlock cries out when John gives a particularly sharp thrust, and John reaches down to take his cock in hand.

"You want to come, sweetheart?" he says, delighting in the way Sherlock shivers at the sound of his voice. Sherlock's face is a wreck: his cheeks are flushed, there's a sheen of sweat John is itching to lick away, his mouth is wet and puffy from where his teeth are chewing on his lower lip. He nods and lifts up only to slam back down onto John's cock and moan with abandon.

"Please," he pleads, voice low and hoarse, "yes, wanna, John, ohhh..."

John's cock pulses with the lust his darling boy draws out of him. His head spins with the scent and cloud of mating pheremones his beloved shrouds him in. He brings his free hand back between Sherlock's cheeks, feels along to the point where he's sliding in and out that tight arse. His fingers massage around the rim that is full of his cock, and Sherlock jerks with ecstasy. With his other hand, he squeezes Sherlock's prick, sliding a tight circle up and down his length. Sherlock shudders and cries again.

"Gonna- oh _John_ , ohhhh _fuck_!"

John feels his lover's cock thicken just before he comes, curling over to brace his forehead against John's shoulder as his come spurts over John's fingers, and John finally gives in and pounds into the clenching body above that's milking him for every drop.

Sherlock is shivering with the force of his sudden orgasm, and John groans from his toes as he spills himself deep inside that luscious heat. Sherlock falls limply against him, breath and heart racing, and John reaches both hands now to collect the semen dripping from Sherlock's quivering arse. When he deems he's got enough, he smoothly rubs it into the skin of his lover, his _claim's_ , sweat-slicked back.

Sherlock, still getting his breath back, squirms. "Did you just..."

"Quiet," John breaths, nipping Sherlock's poor, abused neck again. He rubs his seed, his scent, completely into Sherlock's skin, runs his fingers lightly over it, feeling rather proud of himself. Primal. His Other, dark self purrs in delight. John presses kisses to his lover's jaw. He smiles when Sherlock twitches with an aftershock, and then rakes his nails abruptly down Sherlock's back, growling with pleasure when Sherlock arches up and squeals in surprise. His wide eyes blink down at John, and John leans forward to kiss his collarbones.

"Just a reminder."

"Of what? That I'm a scratching post?"

John, whose hand is still wrapped around Sherlock's dick, pointedly looks down and back. "Don't act like you didn't enjoy it."

"I... " he pants, but trails off. He wipes his brow at the sweat gathering there. Blushes further. Oh, how John loves him.

"I know," John whispers. He stretches his neck to softly kiss Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock lets himself sink back into John. They hold each other, enjoying the afterglow of a really solid quickie. Seriously, five stars, that. Far too soon, Sherlock shakes his head and awkwardly untangles his giraffe limbs to get to his feet.

He winces and rubs a hand on his arse. He gives John a pointed look, and gingerly makes his way to their room to change.

John chuckles to himself, then hears the bathroom door shut and sits up in alarm. He twists around to shout down the hall. "Don't you dare wash that off, Sherlock!"

Sherlock pokes his dishevelled head around the door. "John, that's disgusting!"

"I will hold you down and do it again. You watch me!"

Sherlock groans the groan of the severely oppressed but stomps his way to their bedroom all the same.

"Fine!" he yells. "But if we get _any_ funny looks– " he slams the door.

John smirks to himself and quietly says, "I'll deal with them."

He stretches back with a satisfied sigh. Rubs his hands over his belly, smearing Sherlock's come into his own skin and flexes his toes. His lazy gaze finally lands on the mug of tea Sherlock had abandoned when he'd started to tease. John tisks.

"He wasted it anyway. That bastard."

* * *

 **A/N:** I think this bit will be multi-chaptered. With porn.

Thank you to all comments and encouragement! Both are appreciated. :)


	2. Sippin' That Red Drank

**A/N:** Re: cherry lip gloss - see notes below.

* * *

John doesn't spend long examining himself in the mirror before they leave. His jeans and cardigan combo will be just fine with the leather jacket. He knows precisely what the blood club is like, he knows precisely how he will, or will not, attract attention, and he really does not otherwise give any fucks because he's too busy worrying about Sherlock. And the long, long lengths of his leather-clad legs, and the more-open-than-it-should-be loose, black silk top. And his perfectly tousled curls. And...oh god, is he wearing lip gloss?

Without thinking, John crowds him up against the wall and deeply inhales at his neck. As is often the case, John's fangs positively _ache_ with the desire to sink into that flesh. To mark him properly. To drink from him. To _have_ him.

"Christ, you're illegal," he murmurs into his skin. He sucks kisses into the white slopes of his throat. His tongue sneaks out to run under his chin and over his jaw. He rubs his wrists against Sherlock's pulse points and just generally flattens himself as much as possible all over as much as possible of his partner. His claim.

With a feral joy, John nuzzles the visible purple mark at his neck, bites it again for good measure. Runs his fingers over the red lines scratched down his chest that just peek through the black 'v' of his shirt. He smirks to himself at the visible markers he has put on Sherlock's body. John can be a genius, too.

"I'm assuming this is passable?"

"Anything you want," John says, and feels his knees shake with the desire to drop to them so he can suck his cock.

Sherlock clears his throat, and runs a hand along the back of John's head. He blinks quickly, looking a bit dazed. "Yes. Well."

With an apologetic half-smile, Sherlock slips out from under John's possessive grip, and reaches for his coat. John takes a calming breath.

Sherlock smirks. "Now then. Off we go to The Double Tip."

John cringes. He knows the name, has known it for twenty years since Adam Byron built it, but it still never fails to make him wince. Sure, it was funny at first, but now it's just awful.

"Right. Which is a..." He makes a point to appear skeptical.

"Vampire fetishist club, John."

"Yeah. That." He frowns when Sherlock reaches for his scarf and stops him with a hand on his wrist. "Maybe not tonight." Usually, John would very much want Sherlock to cover up that tempting neck. But, considering where they're going, he wants to make sure the Others see that love bite, front and centre.

Sherlock looks at John and then his scarf. He places it back on the hook. "Ah." He looks away and then adds, "Good point." His lips purse as if trying not to grin, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth.

John shakes his head. "That was a _horrible_ pun and you know it."

Sherlock breaks out into a wide grin. "I thought it was rather clever."

"You would."

On the cab ride to Soho, John breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. The closer they get, the more furious he becomes with himself. He simply cannot believe he's going to a blood club with his claim. With his not-yet-fully- _marked_ claim. He swears to any and every thing that if anyone of the blood so much as touches him, he will tear them apart. John has pull in this city. He's been here longer than anyone, except for Thomas, and no one would dare lay a hand on whatever John Watson has claimed.

It's just that Sherlock is so goddamn irresistible that he's _worth_ starting a blood feud over. John knows if he were in their position _he_ would. He stifles a growl and tightens his grip on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock arches a brow. "Honestly, why are you so worked up? We've gone undercover loads of times. This is hardly the first club. So my chest is showing a bit, everyone else's will be, too. It's fine."

John bites back what he _wants_ to say. "I know."

He can feel Sherlock's gaze on him, laser focused. "Is it... about the blood? You shouldn't have an aversion, you're a doctor. It isn't like we're going to... partake," he says with a sneer.

"It's not... nothing, Sherlock. Just. Be careful." John turns his head to meet his partner's eyes. "Please."

Sherlock's brow furrows for a moment, but he nods. "I will."

As the cab nears the block The Double Point is located on, Sherlock leans in. "Now, I know, mmm roughly what I'm looking for. Don't go too far, but get a drink. Try to blend in." He eyes John's clothing options skeptically. "Or maybe just hang around the bar."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. You just watch yourself. These people can be... charming." To say the least.

Sherlock whips around to look at him and John fights the urge to smack himself. _Idiot._

"How would you know?"

"What?"

"How would you know they're charming? You said _'these people.'_ Earlier, you didn't even know these clubs existed."

John thinks quickly and widens his eyes. "Well, I mean, if it's a fetish thing about blood, you probably have to be really charming to talk people into wanting to drink it. Right? I mean... it's blood."

Sherlock's eyes narrow and he purses his lips. "Hmm. Possibly."

The cab mercifully stops, and John has already figured out their game plan for the night. They go in, Sherlock snoops, John talks with Adam, gets his info, drags Sherlock from the floor before having to severely maim anyone. Simple. Should take less than ten minutes.

They move towards the front of the line, where it's queuing about thirty deep. To John's amusement, the bouncer eyes Sherlock very seriously, but doesn't actually let them skip the line until he notices John. Sherlock slides a bemused glance at him because usually it's Sherlock's killer, runway looks that get them at the front of the lines. John just shrugs, but flashes a look at the bouncer as they pass. The bouncer, a huge, burly, beast of a man that must be at least 6'3" immediately lowers his gaze.

John feels his Other self stir in satisfaction at the easily won submission. Feels it slither up John's spine. His body thrums with awareness of their location even though it's been years since he's been inside. John can feel the darkness gathering in his veins and breathes through it. This turns out to be a bad idea, because the scent of blood, sweat, sex, and pheremones hit him like a blast as the main door to the studio is opened. John's razor-sharp canines descend, despite himself, and he tugs Sherlock close, straightening his spine. Sherlock steers them through crowds that part for him easily, and John glares at anyone who dares to look at him; which is everyone. It's almost fascinating how much the tables are turned on them tonight. Sherlock will be the one everyone sees and wants, at first. But it is John for whom 98% of the patrons here tonight have come. For a moment, he lets himself imagine the gobsmacked look on Sherlock's face should he exert his dominance on the humans surrounding them. With a look, he can stop a body and command their attention, and a nod of his chin could have them lowering to their knees.

And he doesn't even have the gift of Compulsion. He's just that damn good.

But that is not why they have come, and as amusing as it would be, John does _not_ want Sherlock here for longer than absolutely necessary. His hold on Sherlock's wrist is strong enough that the detective wriggles it a bit in discomfort, but John is content in his minor suffering as long as it keeps him close. He tries to ignore the part of him that glows with the knowledge that Sherlock will endure a bit of pain at John's whims. Much too distracting, that.

As they approach the bar, a woman with long, unnaturally red hair, and a shiny, green satin corset sees John and widens her black painted eyes. She obviously knows what to look for, and the scent of Another clings to her skin from having been sampled earlier. She's already a little high off their venom, and she twirls her way towards him to rub her body against his with a purr of pleasure. Had Sherlock not been here, he probably would've taken her to a darkened alcove for a drink before laying her down on one of the many leather sofas tucked here and there and moving on to the next. It wouldn't be sexual for him, not any longer now that he has Sherlock, but he's gasping for fresh blood. It's been three days since he properly fed.

His throat constricts and goes dry as his body urges him to feed, but Sherlock has noticed her attention by now and spins around with a thunderous frown. John gently brushes her aside and she coos with disappointment. It's obvious she's a regular, though, because she doesn't force the issue and is immediately respectful of John's rejection. There are rules, after all, and if they aren't followed, Adam will have you banned quicker than than you can blink. Sherlock crowds up against John and sends him an odd look, which he dodges with his most innocent, oblivious expression, and leads them to the bar.

At the counter, Sherlock drapes himself as alluringly as possible against the polished wood, showing off the pale contrast of skin against his dark silk shirt. John wants to run his hand over that skin and feel the muscles ripple under his touch. Instead, he leans over the bar and catches the eye of the nearest bartender. The youth, practically a boy, wearing a black mesh top, and scandalously short bottoms, drops what he is doing with a nod, and ducks his gaze respectfully. John smirks. Adam has certainly trained his staff well. A quick look at the boy's neck reveals two barely discernible pricks at the vein, and John's stomach rumbles. He orders a gin and tonic for Sherlock, and tells the boy that he wants to speak with Adam. The youth nods, making Sherlock's drink in record time, and then quickly departs to find his employer. Or, more likely, master. Adam's pleasantly mild scent lingers in the young man's wake, and John sighs with envy. John's own scent doesn't linger on Sherlock like that, not yet. Not until he's fed from him. He lets his eyes focus on the dark bruise peeking out of Sherlock's collar and his heart pulses with want.

Sherlock sets his drink aside and leans over.

"I'm going out to mingle a bit. See what I can learn." His gaze stops on a couple just ahead who are writhing against each other to the deep, booming bass of the gothic techno something-or-other that's fashionable these days. The man has his hand on his partner's hair, tilting her head back to expose her neck. He hasn't pierced her skin, but by the sounds she's making you'd think he had. John rolls his eyes. He isn't even _biting_ her. Just sucking her skin. Fucking wannabe amateurs.

John slides a hand around Sherlock's trim waist, and pulls his bum back into his groin. Sherlock arches a saucy brow and John kisses the side of his throat. "If you lose sight of me we'll meet back up, right here, in ten minutes."

Sherlock's face scrunches up and he gets ready to launch into a tirade probably about needing more time, but John gives him a quailing look, letting his eyes flash just a bit in the dim lighting. Sherlock closes his mouth. He swallows and nods once.

"Ten minutes," John says again. His gaze gets stuck on the sheen of gloss slicked over plush lips, teasing him. He curls fingers around Sherlock's jaw and slides his other hand into unruly locks, pulling him down into a deep, deep kiss. He takes control of Sherlock's mouth easily and swallows his gasp. Possessiveness flairs through his senses, knowing he has Sherlock here, knowing who could be watching. He tugs on Sherlock's hair, viciously angling his neck almost to the point of pain, and deepens the kiss until Sherlock is clutching John's shirt between his fingers and whimpering.

With a loud smack, John finally releases him, and steadies his darling where he momentarily sways. John licks his lips, enjoying the sticky aftertaste of cherry. Before him, Sherlock's lovely, pale eyes are still unfocussed before he blinks back to himself, and he sends John an ever-increasing look of confusion. John rubs his thumb across Sherlock's lower lip and leans back in.

"Remember what I said." Sherlock nods and starts to move away, but John tugs him back. "Keep that gloss for later."

Sherlock licks his lips and bites back a smile. He turns and smooths his hands down his silky shirt, then drifts forward into the thrumming crowd. John then turns to meet the gaze of the vampire whose been watching them for several minutes with amusement and what looks like a touch of jealousy. John's met him several times over the decades, but it's been a few years since the last. Adrien is his name. A transplant from France, post-war, and the vampire nods his head in greeting and acknowledgement of John's obvious claim. John jerks his head and scans for Sherlock once more before turning back to the bar. Fuck. He needs a drink.

He orders a Bloody Mary, though the young, cheeky barkeep says, "Tonight, they're Bloody Theresa's," with a wink. He waves away his money, but John tips him well all the same, marvelling at how easy the staff can recognise him. He knows they're enthralled, but it's still rather impressive at the ease in which they see what he is. Adam must have some kind of training programme

"I hope you're not eyeing that one too hard. He's rather a favourite."

John turns at the sound of his old friend and grins. The flashy owner of The Double Point, winks at John and gestures to the youth that has returned to the paying customers and their drinks. He's nearly as old as John, though frozen at the age of about 32. He wears dark trousers that hang around slim, pale hips secured with a thick, leather belt. Half a dozen gold and beaded necklaces fall around his neck, adorning an otherwise bare chest, and his wrists are cuffed with wooden bracelets. No shirt tonight, then. Though, his long, dark hair falls over his back and shoulders, and that combined with his glittering jewellery... well, who needs a shirt?

"Besides," he continues, preening under John's gaze, "I had him earlier this morning, and he's still far too low for another decent pull." Adam's gleaming white teeth flash at John before a magenta light falls on him from above and makes the necklaces sparkle like bloody diamonds. "I can, however, recommend Julie, over there." John's eyes flick to a lovely blonde with ample cleavage just barely contained inside her tight halter top. "She's divine," the other vampire purrs.

John shakes his head at the theatrics, but smiles. "Adam, good to see you."

"John," the other vampire greets, warmly taking his hand between cool palms. They subtly lean in to politely scent the other. Adam's brows raise and he grins. "Didn't expect to see you in here. Been quite a while, in fact. You're smelling well... if a bit frustrated." He winks.

John shrugs, ignoring the jibe. "I'm actually here for a case."

Adam's face lights up and he nods. His dark eyes track out across the sea of writhing bodies. "Are you here on... a _stake_ out?" The man chuckles and waggles his brows, but John rolls his eyes with a groan.

"That was terrible, Adam. Is this the night for bad puns?" He can't help but grin a bit, though. The man's sense of humour has always been infectious. A product of the Romantic era, through and through.

"Oh, come on. Your claim is a _detective_ , can you really blame me?" He sips at a drink that was slid across the bar, and which smells faintly of AB neg and vodka. "To be honest, I've been sitting on that one for a while. It's pathetic. But! Here you are."

John shakes his head. "Lovely. Listen, I'm afraid I'm here more for business than pleasure. Can we talk real quick? Before he gets back?"

Adam nods, and leads John towards a dark hallway farther away from loud, thumping music and curious eyes. "What's up, Doc?"

John strains his ears, taking care to make sure no one is about to listen in before answering. "Are there any new kids in town? Newborns, specifically."

In the dark, it's hard to get a read on Adam's expression, but John can sense the man tense up. "As a matter of fact, I have. One just left a couple months ago, Peters chased him off, but there's a new one been hanging around. Rob something or other. Leaves with two ladies each time he's come here. Which has been exactly twice." Adam tuts and sips at his drink. "Told the little shit to be discreet and keep his nose clean and he'd have no trouble. Doubt he'll listen, though. Without a sire, the little bastards never do."

John groans again and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "You're certain he doesn't have a sire?"

"Haven't seen one yet. I sent one of my boys round to follow up on him. He's staying in Shoreditch at some shitty manse block, bedsit."

"Great."

"Has he, wonder of wonders, caused trouble?"

"Not sure," John says. "Someone murdered a woman, drank her dry, and fucked up the cover. Struck me as a newborn's idiocy, but I wasn't aware of any newcomers."

"Shit," Adam hisses. "Scent?"

"Something weird like... I don't know, moss and maybe kerosene? Potent. Not nice."

"Kerosene? That'll be our boy. Ugh." Adam shifts in the darkness, his necklaces clacking together, and leans in. "Should I report him or just off his stupid arse?"

"Does he have potential?"

Adam scoffs. "Potential to piss me off."

For a moment, John wavers back and forth. They'd all, each of them, been newborns at one point, and John knows firsthand how hard it had been without his sire at first. He'd been fortunate that another had found him not long after abandonment and opted to take him under their wing before the villagers could have him burned alive. His adopted sire had calmed him. Taught him about their world. John really wasn't interested in mentoring anyone new, not especially with Sherlock around, and if he was this ridiculous _now_...

"Sherlock thinks it isn't his first murder. And with him working this case, I don't want to give this Rob kid any further incentive to attack my claim." John nods to himself, decided. "If he's as dumb as you think, I say we take care of him."

"I mean," Adam adds, "I could send him to Thomas and he and his cronies can decide whether or not he's Gifted enough to contribute to the London coven... but he just seems like such a cocky little prick. I don't want him as a coven-mate," he finishes with a pout.

"Let's not bother Thomas with this," John says. He doesn't need Thomas' permission to get rid of a problem child. "Next time you see him come in, give me a call, and I'll come help you dispose of him. I want this over with quickly."

Adam sighs. "Yeah. That's probably for the best. Anyway, he's scaring off my trusted gals. None of them have come back after they left with him, and that's bad for business."

"Are they– "

"No, they're alive. But I gather he didn't treat them nicely, and two of them are my regular stock. I mean, good, quality haemoglobin. And now I can't convince either of them to donate any more." Adam growls quietly just above the beat of music. "Ought to kill him just for that. You don't mess with the stock, anywhere."

"Right." John knocks back the rest of his Bloody Theresa, appreciating the aforementioned stock. AB neg is hard to come by. "I'm going to find Sherlock."

Adam snorts. "I'm a bit appalled at how long you've left him unattended. We have two in-house tonight, and he smells like a wet dream. And one of them is relatively new. Doubt you've had the pleasure. Actually, I'd keep an eye on her. She's been making a bit of a splash on the scene, lately."

John's hackles rise on instinct, but he forces his anger down because Adam is only teasing. "That's _my_ claim you're talking about and I won't hesitate to break your jaw."

Adam laughs as a wave of his pleasant, cool scent wafts over John. "Yeah, I remember the last time, thanks. It's just fun to rile you up, Watson. I'll be in touch."

John pats Adam affectionately on the shoulder, allowing Adam to scent him in farewell. "Take care."

"John," Adam adds, taking a step back in the dark. "I know it's none of my business, and you can tell me to fuck off, but... you're still not... your scent is your own." It's a question masked as a statement, and John shuffles on his feet. "It's... complicated." His chest tightens at the thought of Sherlock still on the floor, alone. Without his full scent to protect him.

Adam groans. "I really doubt that. Hell, even I can tell you're both a match. Sac up and take him already." He pauses and then huffs. "Frankly, you smell awful, and I know it's not just because you aren't getting laid."

John sighs and makes again for the floor. "And on that note, fuck off. Good talk, though!" he snarks, and leaves his friend behind.

He tries to brush aside the comment about him and Sherlock being a match, but Adam's subtle warning makes the skin on John's neck crawl. Makes his fangs quiver. He'll claim Sherlock for his own soon enough, but until then he'd rather not think about how much it pains him that they're separate.

He hovers just at the edge of the twist of gyrating bodies on the dance floor, pretenders, nearly all of them. He spots Adrien necking with some gorgeous dark-haired beauty in a red mini dress, and leading her towards one of the conveniently darkened alcoves with a chaise just peeking out the edge. The sight makes John's fists clench, and he quickly scans for the Other Adam mentioned. He can't ever be sure how many vampires are in-house in places like this, but it never gets up past five at the most. Adam had said two earlier, but who knows who may have entered since John; unlikely as it is. There aren't that many vampires in London now, anyway.

John attempts to scent the room for Sherlock, but the volume of humans, combined with their natural scents and Adam's own personally manufactured pheromones, all swirling through the humid air together make it a pointless endeavour. The cocktail everyone breathes in at The Double Point is designed to get the humans to relax. Not strictly to drug them. More like allowing them to be open enough for... experimentation. Though, if they're coming to a place like this, one would expect that they were already up for anything. The downside is it also heightens a vamps already desperate excitement. On the other hand, a vampire never leaves here without drinking their fill. If they choose.

It's _this_ thought that makes John growl. He still hasn't spotted Sherlock and his irritation grows by the second. The man smells far too good to be left alone here for a length of time. John is just about to climb a case of stairs across the room for a better viewpoint, when he _finally_ glimpses an outline of familiar curls, and head's towards a corner near the dj booth. When he gets closer, he notes that Sherlock is leaning over, speaking into the ear of a tall, black latex-clad woman. Her crimson-tipped hand snakes out to rub along his semi-exposed chest, and John feels his fangs descend and pupils dilate. It's the Other. He shoves three teens aside to make a direct path to his claim, and when he scents this interloper, the newest member of the London community, he issues a warning growl.

She growls automatically in response before checking herself, and then purposefully slides between John and Sherlock, with her chin held high. John briefly sees red at her audacity. He can smell the enticement of her pheromones being directed at _his_ claim and it's unbelievably infuriating. Vampires are, by nature, very seductive, but he's heard stories. This one before him now is particularly Gifted. And the fact that she's using that talent against what's his? Oh, it's all John can do not to slice her jewelled throat right open.

"Ah, John," Sherlock says, looking between the two with something close to bemusement. His posture is relaxed, and if John didn't know any better, he'd think Sherlock had had a drink or three. That idiot has no idea how close John is to clawing her eyes out. He takes a step forward, trespassing on her personal space.

" _Irene_ , isn't it?"

"Mm, John," she purrs. "I was just chatting to this enchanting fellow here." She inhales deeply, pointedly, and leans close to John, lowering her voice. "He smells... _quite_ interesting."

John pushes past her, blocking her access, and lays a possessive hand at Sherlock's back. He angles himself so that Sherlock can't see him flash a hint of fang at her. "Doesn't he just."

He and Irene stare each other down, and his anger begins to turn lethal just as she reluctantly breaks contact and ducks her chin in submission. John has been in London for literally centuries longer than her, and if she thinks her display of insolence is going to enamour him to her she's got another thing coming. Her territory may be growing, along with her influence, but John still has time and strength over her, and he will use both advantages if necessary.

"You two know each other?" Sherlock asks, looking back and forth between them with a frown.

"We've met," Irene lies with a smirk. "But it looks like he's ready to go. Aren't you, John?"

He can feel his pupils widen and his fingers tingle with the urge to _rip_. "Yes," he clips. "Sherlock?" John does not wait for his response, and he pushes. Sherlock stumbles forward.

"John," Sherlock snaps, surprised.

John's grip tightens around Sherlock's wrist, and it is only through sheer force of will that he does not turn around and challenge Irene, senseless though it may be. John is possessive about his associations. Always has been. But he is mild as far as territorial issues go, or _was_ until Sherlock (and he tries not to think about that too much) and perhaps his rage is a _bit_ exaggerated, but he really thinks she will look much better without a head atop her shoulders.

" _John_ ," Sherlock barks, and then grumbles when he smacks right into a solid back.

John spins around, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's throat and pushing him into a darkened niche to their right. Sherlock gasps and his hands fly to the fingers at his neck. In the dark, John can just see the whites of his eyes widen and he snarls. Sherlock is slammed up against a wall, and John plasters their fronts together. His blood is boiling, and he needs very desperately to place as much of his scent over Sherlock's body as possible. To wipe _hers_ off.

"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock hisses. His fingers tug at the vicelike grip around his neck. John isn't cutting off Sherlock's oxygen, but he will keep the man where he wants until he calms down. Until his other self stops scratching at his insides to be let loose.

"You let her touch you," John growls, gripping the front of Sherlock's sweat-damp, silk shirt with his free hand.

Sherlock's mouth works silently, and he gasps another breath as John's fingers tighten around his windpipe. "What are you talking about? I wasn't– "

His words are abruptly swallowed up by John's mouth and even more so by the tongue roughly thrust inside. John trembles with the force of keeping his sharp canines from harming his detective, and when he feels a burgeoning hardness against his stomach, the effort lessens. His anger somewhat abates at this obvious sign of Sherlock's acceptance, and he lets himself get a little drunk on the scent of lust that is pouring off his beloved. Sherlock is still tense, still confused, but he does not move away. He growls his approval into their kiss and revels in the total surrender of Sherlock's body finally giving into him.

John presses Sherlock back into the wall when he leans forward to fight for air. On instinct, John grips his perceived prey's throat so hard that he can hear the halt in Sherlock's lungs. This added level of danger does nothing for the erection Sherlock now unconsciously ruts against John's hip. There is a fierce pride that roars deep in John's chest at knowing that this man gets aroused by fear. That his prey can be turned on by his predator.

Something wet drips onto his hand, which John belatedly realises are tears leaking from Sherlock's eyes, and he immediately slackens his hold. Sherlock gulps down air even while reaching for John at the same time. In the strobing lights, John can see that his eyes are red, the lashes damp, and he is trembling from a combination of confusion, fear, and overwhelmingly, lust. John's cock pulses in his pants. He badly wants to fuck him in front of all of these people. He wants them to watch him reduce this arrogant, mouthy, _gasping_ smartarse of a prat into a gibbering, incoherent mess. He sincerely hopes someone challenges him. God, what he'd give for an all-out, bloody battle for dominance right about now.

"John?" Sherlock breathes. His hips have stilled, and his fingers nervously knead the fabric of John's leather jacket.

John slides the hand not around Sherlock's throat down to palm the hot erection throbbing through the almost painted on leather trousers. They're so tight that John can feel the larger veins of his dick bulging through the flimsy fabric. Can feel the ridge of his glans. Had it been any other material, John would have also felt the damp spot formed from the pre-come he can smell leaking out of his prick.

Sherlock whimpers and his hips thrust up into his hand. He opens his mouth to take in more oxygen, and John leans forward to nip and nuzzle at his ear. He can feel the heat of Sherlock's skin, smell the sweat dripping down his jaw.

"Do you like it here?" John asks before tugging Sherlock's earlobe between his teeth.

Sherlock keeps pumping his hips into John's torturous hold. His hands are gripping John's shoulders, keeping him close. He shakes his head. "No," he gasps. "But you do."

John briefly stops massaging Sherlock's cock through his trousers. He grins and scratches his tongue across the sharp little point of one canine. Sherlock has somehow twisted John's reactions into him _liking_ the blood club. John lightly squeezes Sherlock's throat again and Sherlock's moan reverberates throughout their little niche. His hips push out, seeking the friction John's hand provides, and he obliges. His fingers squeeze along the length of him.

"You think so," John murmurs. He pulls back far enough to watch Sherlock's faintly magenta-lit face while he rubs him through his trousers. He pinches the head of his cock and Sherlock's skull bangs back against the wall and his eyes slam shut.

John darts forward, and in his excitement he inadvertently nips that pouty lower lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood. The dark thing within roars with desire, and John instantly laps it up with a gut deep groan. The salty tang of it hits his tastebuds, and his salivary glands fire. _Goddamnit_ , he tastes delicious. He _knew_ he would. With a whimper, he sucks that lip back in between his and hums as a precious few more drops are coaxed onto his tongue. John feels like he's about to lose his mind to a frenzy. His cock jumps and thickens, which is very uncomfortable in his jeans, but he nevertheless presses it into Sherlock's thigh with a long, low moan. It doesn't provide any any relief at all and _god_ , he's playing with fire. If he doesn't stop, right now, he won't. Hating it, he swipes the underside of his tongue over Sherlock's lip, and draws his face away for air. The tissue above his canines feels inflamed, and a part of John's inner self is howling with outrage. _Mine. Take. Drink. Claim._ He knows he should not have done that, taken his blood, but instincts tell him he's in a safe place to drink, and his chosen is at his mercy, so why hasn't he just done it yet?

John's fingernails bite, instead, into the skin of his neck, and Sherlock hisses in response. His eyelids flutter open and John turns back to his addictive mouth. "What... has gotten - _unh_ ," Sherlock pants between kisses. John licks along his lips once more but doesn't dare attempt to nip them again. His saliva has sealed the minuscule cut for now, but it wouldn't take much to re-open it. And John rather likes those lips, so he's going to try to avoid ripping them open and ruining them.

His fingers go back to tracing the outline of Sherlock's dick, and he presses the heel of his palm against its length. Sherlock presses his face into John's neck and thrusts against him.

"This is... probably illegal," he groans.

John smiles something feral and nuzzles Sherlock's jaw. "I promise you, this is one of the least illegal things that happens here."

Sherlock whimpers and licks at the skin he can reach with his tongue. John arches his neck to give him better access and fights not to unzip his trousers. Fuck, that feels amazing. He loves when Sherlock plays with his neck. One day, Sherlock will flay it open, and the thought makes John shudder with desire.

He increases the pressure of the hand between Sherlock's thighs. Increases his speed. "Come on, then," he growls.

"Oh god," Sherlock chokes. He snakes a leg around one of John's, and his hips piston into him. John feels blunt teeth pressing just to the side of his jugular and his brain flares white-hot. He squeezes the fingers around Sherlock's throat and feels his canines drop fully. Fuck, _god_ , he could. He could, _right_ here.

"John, _fuck_ ," Sherlock mewls, jerking against him.

"Come on, darling, that's it."

Sherlock's hands claw at John's arm and back, and his teeth dig into John's neck to muffle his cries while he thrashes against him in pleasure. His dick pulses under his hand, making a mess inside those sexy trousers, and Sherlock's laboured breath sounds like a freight train in his ear.

"Fucking gorgeous," John growls. He lowers his head just as Sherlock collapses against him, completely spent and utterly trusting. His own cock twinges in envy, and he presses his open mouth to Sherlock's vein. He is dizzy with the addition of adrenalin and the thrumming pulse of Sherlock's blood beneath his mouth, and he can feel the vein jumping under his tongue where it laps out to savour the salt of his skin. His arms encircle Sherlock in a strong hold, and John positions his mouth. Sherlock's body sings to him, his vitality calls to him like a siren, and he is nearly helpless to seal his mouth over his neck. The tips of his fangs just barely dent the skin of that pale, perfect throat when Sherlock threads a soft hand through John's hair. With a jolt, John is called back to his senses and he violently jerks away. He takes two steps back and wipes the back of his hand over his lips to hide their pearly tips, panting with effort.

Sherlock stumbles forward on trembling legs without the support. John has to turn away from the image and take a breath. He needs to regain control of himself and the site of his post-orgasmic lover will not help him achieve that. He shakes his head to clear it, ignoring the throb of his neglected erection, and looks out into the sea of dancing people. Unwittingly, he catches Irene's jealous glare. He smirks at her, standing tall, and feeling infinitely smug at having basically fucked Sherlock in front of her. She rolls her eyes and elegantly twirls away, leaving a man and woman, both, to trail after.

"Yeah, well, fuck you, too," he spits in her direction.

He makes another pass towards the bar, where he sees that Adam has apparently enjoyed the spectacle. John arches a brow as the vampire makes a show of licking his lips. John shakes his head, and when he feels of a tentative hand at his back, he turns.

Sherlock meets his gaze for a second and then looks away. He chews on the side of his lip and squirms awkwardly in his sticky leather trousers. His eyes dart back to John again, and John's lips thin at the uncertainly he finds there. He steps forward, feeling much more in control, teeth in check, and softly kisses Sherlock's lips. One hand cups his cheek, the other gently strokes the red marks at his throat. While a part of him preens with joy at the light bruising he'll no doubt develop, another worries he went too far. He really has got to get Sherlock out of here.

He slides a hand down to take Sherlock's and twines their fingers together. "Come on. Let's go home, yeah?"

Sherlock stares at him a moment longer, and then his own lips thin and jerks his head. This time, he's the one who leads them off, and John can tell by the stiff way he holds himself that Sherlock isn't happy. It's fine. He can yell at him all he wants later as long as they're home and away from here. From Others.

Sherlock hails a cab the second they step outside, as per usual. John gives the address, crowds him in the back, and tucks himself right up against the detective's side.

Sherlock does not move away, but neither does he sit comfortably beside him, either. In fact, he's rather rigid with his fists balled in his lap, and his breath still quick from their encounter moments ago. John sits patiently beside him, reliving his inexcusable lapse in judgement that nearly ruined everything. Sherlock doesn't look at him.

The minutes wear on, and the farther away from the club they get, combined with the sway of the cab, eventually soothe him somewhat, and soon Sherlock relaxes into his side. John's lips quirk, and he wraps an arm across his shoulders. Sherlock reluctantly lays his head on John's. A few minutes more and the man even curls an arm round his stomach. But in an annoyed fashion. John smiles into the passing lights of London and cards his fingers through Sherlock's sweaty curls.

It isn't until they are halfway home that Sherlock finally speaks. "I think I'm angry with you."

John purses his lips and nods. "Okay."

Sherlock's fingers twitch where they're twined through John's jacket. "I'm serious."

John scratches his scalp in acknowledgement.

"And we're going to talk about this," he adds, less certain.

"Okay." John turns his head and kisses the mop of curls nearest.

John settles into the worn seat and idly plays with Sherlock's curls. He thinks of how he'll need to twist whatever argument Sherlock comes up with when they get home, when all he really wants is a bath and to go to sleep.

Sherlock sighs and readjusts his chin atop John's shoulder. John smirks to himself in congratulations. Discreetly, he sniffs the air, and the dark thing coos in happiness at the way his scent has changed just the slightest, tiniest bit from the drops of Sherlock's blood he's ingested. John shivers at the memory of that fleeting taste. Sadly, it wasn't enough to solidify a bond, or to even enthrall him, but now that he knows what he tastes like John wants even more.

He nuzzles the top of Sherlock's head and frowns. After tonight, his timeline is in danger of being shot to hell, and he'll need to manufacture another opportunity to steal a sip of Sherlock's blood. His lip curls. Especially now that Another is coveting his claim.

John lays his hand in Sherlock's hair and presses his lovely face closer against him. He really ought to do something about the way they smell.

* * *

 **A/N:** So, as I was describing Sherlock's club rat gear, he suddenly had cherry lip gloss. And I thought, "Goddamn. That's hot. Why did this happen?" And then I thought, "Wait. I read this. Recently. He wore it. WHO WROTE THAT?" And then I realised it was unconsciously inspired by the brilliant author, cwb, and her delicious little smutlet, "All the Flavours, Cherry and More." (I don't know how to use html on this stupid website, or I'd link.) Which, if you haven't read, you really must. So, I kept it. And referenced it again. Reasons. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (Seriously though, go read that fic, holy shit.)

Anyway. I hope you enjoyed this next chapter in the continuing saga of a jealous vampire boyfriend with problems. Thank you for reading. :)


	3. Spin, Spin Those Webs

Sherlock stomps up the stairs as soon as they are inside. He even throws his beloved coat on the ground. John frowns down at it before stooping to retrieve and hang it properly. Prat.

"There's no need to take out your irritation on your fancy coat." He says before smoothing a wrinkle in the fine wool. It's probably about time to have it dry-cleaned, actually.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the sitting room, hands on his hips, and glares.

John slowly turns. "Tea?"

"No."

John pauses in his retreat. He takes in Sherlock's stance. His face. The tight skin around his eyes and they way glint with anger and... vulnerability. He rigidly stands before John with his chin held high.

"What," Sherlock begins, "in the _hell_ was that back there?"

John sighs and goes to sit in his chair. Aloof and disinterested. If he isn't making a big deal out of something, then Sherlock will get confused and start to question himself. This is, after all, at least going to partially be a relationship argument. And Sherlock always looks to John as the North pointing compass as far as regards those.

"Which part? The bit where I made you come in your trousers like a teenager?" John smirks. He lets his eyes linger on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock narrows his.

"I was referring to several things, actually." He holds up one long finger. "The part where you drug me away before I had all of my information," he adds another finger, "the part where you snuck off to talk to a _shirtless_ man," finger, "or the part where an obviously questionable woman _knew who you were_ in a club you _claim to have not known about_!"

Sherlock is imperceptibly panting and he jams his hands back upon his hips. His lips are pursed. On paper, okay, that doesn't look so great.

"How often do you go there?" Sherlock asks. His voice is flat and he's blanked his expression.

John sits forward and raises his palms. "No, no, I do _not_ go to that place."

"Then how do you explain knowing _two_ people there, John?"

John blinks. "Coincidence?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and throws his hands up. "Oh, please."

John rushes to stand. "No, wait. I will admit that was odd." Sherlock glares again. " _Really_ odd, but I only know the one person. The, ah, shirtless man." That really is true.

Sherlock closes the distance between them with a face like thunder. "Yes, the same one you went away with for an extended period of time. Should I be concerned?"

" _What_ \- no." _Yes. Always._ "He's a mate of mine. Well, a former mate of mine. I guess we don't really chat much anymore."

Sherlock's lip almost quivers and he crosses his arms protectively across his chest.

John smiles faintly, opens his postures to seem less threatening, and takes a cautious step forward. " _Uni_ mate," he placates. "I saw him at the bar and thought I might as well question him while you were doing your thing. I figured if he worked there he may know something more than a simple patron, right?" This last bit is definitely true. Though, they certainly hadn't gone to uni together. John's formal education was by a tutor at least a hundred years before Adam was even born. Well, the first time. Granted, he'd recently graduated from Bart's, again, to obtain his current license, but Adam wasn't around then, either. He was probably building the club up and binge drinking off the regulars.

Sherlock's lips purse even tighter and he huddles in on himself. "And that woman? How do you know her? She certainly seemed _familiar_ ," he spits.

John struggles to reign in the impulse to roll his eyes. Or grin. Sherlock is _jealous_. He kind of loves it.

"I don't actually know her. She lied."

Sherlock's eyes grow round with indignation. "You knew her name!"

John frowns and looks off over Sherlock's shoulder. "Yeah, that was surprising."

Sherlock loudly scoffs and begins to pace. "Right. So, _she_ lied, even though she knows you, and you her, but I'm meant to take _you_ seriously?"

John calmly watches him work himself up into a froth. "Yes."

"Why would she lie? How could she?"

"I don't know; she probably does it a lot."

Sherlock halts and looks at John, waiting.

The doctor shrugs. "I know _of_ her. By reputation."

"And what reputation is that?"

At this, John is legitimately thrown. He blinks twice at Sherlock and watches a light pink suffuse the man's cheeks. "You couldn't tell?"

Sherlock fidgets on his feet. His fingers twist in his silk shirt.

"Really?" John asks. "I thought it was pretty obvious."

Sherlock swallows and his eyes dart back and forth as if re-scanning his memory for details. John feels a bit guilty now at how wrong-footed Sherlock had been that he hadn't noticed the data clearly before them. Either that, or that _creature_ did something to befuddle him.

"She's a dominatrix," he finally says.

Sherlock's head snaps up. His eyes widen a fraction before his mouth, and John realises too late that he probably could've worded that more delicately. It also confirms his suspicions that Irene _messed_ with him and only John is allowed to do that. There will be words had.

"How in the _fuck_ do you know that?!"

John is taken aback, leastwise because Sherlock rarely swears this consistently. "Um, well, the latex for starters," he mumbles. "That and... she's pretty well-known in certain circles for that sort of– "

"Are you fucking her?" Sherlock yells. His skin has paled and he _looks_ frightened. As if it cost him quite a lot just to ask such a thing, and John is, again, genuinely surprised. Sherlock's chest is heaving and his eyes have the faintest sheen glossing them and John does not like that one bit. Though, he's now found his out of this conversation, and he hates himself just a bit for it, too, but Sherlock is getting entirely too worked up much too quickly. Immediately, he crosses to the man and grips his arms.

"Sherlock, no. Stop that now."

Sherlock's eyes bore into John's and the body beneath his hands is tense and quivers with energy. He smells bloody _fantastic_. John observes his long, pale throat swallowing, can see the whites of Sherlock's eyes flash like a skittish colt. He can almost see Sherlock's self-defense mode about to fully engage which is something he will _not_ allow. They have made too much progress for John to let Sherlock throw this away just because he's confused. Dimly, it's interesting to note that Sherlock's fear has manifested as his fear of John's fidelity. His fear that one day John will leave him. Which is the very last thing John will ever do.

John crushes his beloved to his chest. He threads a hand through Sherlock's curls and kisses his temple, his cheek. "No, no, no, sweetheart. There is _only_ you." He pulls back to look down at him. "Do you understand? I would _never_ do that to you. How could you even think I could?"

After a moment, Sherlock smashes his face into John's neck and wraps his long arms in a death grip around his waist. "I'm... I'm confused."

John laughs. "Yes, I'd say so." Sherlock tenses again, but John presses more kisses into his hair. Gently rocks them where they stand. "How much did you drink?" he teases. Sherlock rubs his face on John's shoulder. John pokes again at Sherlock's insecurity. "You know I would never be unfaithful. I know you're new to relationships, but you've got to learn to trust me, Sherlock."

Sherlock squeezes his arms around John's back.

"Is that it? That you... you don't trust me?"

"No," Sherlock says, lips moving against his shoulder. "I... I do."

John kisses his temple. "Right. Good." And before Sherlock can bring up Irene again, John does. "I suppose it makes a bit of sense, really."

"What does?" Sherlock's muffled voice asks.

"That she would be there. It was Adam who told me about her in the first place. That must be where they met."

Sherlock pulls back, expression vaguely skeptical.

John shrugs but keeps his hands on Sherlock's arms. Anchoring him while he half spins his story. It is true that Adam warned John about Irene being there tonight. And John really hadn't ever met her before. Knew of her as a new coven-mate, yes, but they had never physically met.

"Apparently," John goes on, "she's very selective about her, uh, clientele. Requires pictures for approval before even allowing an initial meeting. The snob." He grins as if sharing a joke but Sherlock keeps waiting for him to make everything better again.

"But, you said you didn't... she _said_ you'd met."

"She fibbed. Though, I'm betting she's seen my photo before. And you _did_ say my name when I pulled her claws off of you." John arches a look at him, then again focuses on a spot over Sherlock's shoulder in thought. He knows enough about what Irene does to do a little of his own truth stretching.

"Adam recommended me as a possible client, once. A few years ago now. Out of curiosity, I looked her up online. She has a website and everything," he smirks. Sherlock opens his mouth with a frown, but John cuts him off. "And I told Adam then, as much as I mean it now, that I am not interested. Why she remembered me, I have no idea." He cocks his head. "Though, maybe the blog. A lot of people read it, you know."

She really does have a website. He looked at it once when her name was being kicked around for inclusion in the coven, but he otherwise really doesn't know how she recognised him. Unless he's the last of her new coven-mates to meet, so by default, as a vampire with territory here, it would have to be him. Or, hell, maybe she _has_ checked up on him, considering how ambitious she is.

John rubs his hands up and down Sherlock's arms, and concentrates on that thought. "I really haven't met her before. There is nothing between us, and frankly, I didn't even know who she was at first. All I knew was that some harlot had her paws all over you, and it made my blood boil."

He tugs Sherlock close and mouths his words against Sherlock's ear. "I don't like it when others touch you. And I got a bit overwhelmed. Needed you." He slowly slides a hand down to Sherlock's hip. "You didn't seem to complain about it at the time."

Sherlock swallows and John feels his Adam's apple bob in his throat.

"Now," he lips at Sherlock's ear, "enough of this. I'm sorry," he kisses the lobe, "that I prematurely... ended your clue hunt," he huffs. "But I am yours. And you are mine. And that's all that matters."

There is still residual tension in his detective's body, which means he's not fully decided yet.

He cups Sherlock's jaw and directs his gaze to his own. "Look at me."

Sherlock does, though hesitantly.

"Am I lying?"

Pale, blue eyes track back and forth against deep blue, and the vulnerability swirled with hope is both beautiful and heartbreaking.

Sherlock shivers against him, and John can tell he's immediately accepted this because he plasters himself to John and again buries his face in his neck. John holds him and debates as to whether Sherlock is up for another shattering orgasm before bed. If he gets a third in, the man will drop off to sleep immediately after. Which is good. Because John needs to feed. And in the morning, John will wake him with strong, sweet coffee and french toast with honey, because Sherlock will never, ever turn that down, so John uses it sparingly so that it's still a treat.

Sherlock's hot breath rolls across his neck, and John closes his eyes. Yep, he decides. He'll just have to be. Besides, he's owed his own orgasm.

"Now then," John whispers, trailing a hand down his back and gripping a handful of arse. "I think you ought to go into our room." He kisses Sherlock's jaw. "Take off all of your clothes." He squeezes his waist. "And wait for me to come fuck you."

Sherlock's breath hitches. He mumbles something and ducks his head.

"What was that?"

Sherlock turns his head so that his mouth is clear. "I said, you're insatiable."

John smiles into the room beyond, and nuzzles the side of Sherlock's head. "You have no idea."

Sherlock smirks and leans in to kiss him when his phone pings in his pocket. The back of John's neck prickles and he thinks that maybe their plans have just been derailed. In front him, Sherlock tenses, but reaches into his pocket. John watches his face, watches his expression morph from curious, to excited, and then settle on apologetic.

"There's been another one, hasn't there?" John breathes against his jaw. He squeezes his arms tightly around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock nods against him, scrolling through the message. "Only just, apparently. If we leave now, we might beat Lestrade." His eyes dart to John's in question.

John feels anger bubble up in his gut. He's going to find this arsehole and take pleasure in ripping him a new one. But, he needs to make a call first. John presses a kiss to Sherlock's neck, already feeling his lover's burgeoning interest withdraw. "Go on, then," he says. I'm just going to go change." He eyes Sherlock's leather trousers and smirks. "As should you."

Sherlock grins and makes to leave, then pauses. He quickly spins, wrapping his arms around a surprised John, and kisses him once. His mouth works quietly for a moment before, as if debating on what to say until he simply sighs. "Rain check?" he breathes.

"Mmm, definitely."

* * *

In the cab, John places a possessive hand high on Sherlock's thigh. For all the man notices, because his nose is practically buried in the screen of his mobile while he waits for more information from Lestrade. When the cab pulls up, John grabs a fold of Sherlock's coat to physically restrain him from running off. Sherlock frowns sharply back at him but John keeps hold until they've paid for the cab.

"John," Sherlock quietly scolds, and then leads them towards the few milling police outside the entrance to the building. John stays plastered to his side.

They are directed up to the second floor, but John would've known that anyway. His nostrils flare at the scent of the Other, and of recent blood. Very recent. Surprisingly recent.

"How were the police alerted to this one?" he asks.

Sherlock pushes past a crying neighbour, taking in her splotched face and then striding into the open apartment. "Neighbour," he mutters.

John lingers at the door, subtly swiping his hand over the handle, and then following Sherlock. He inhales deeply and focuses on sharpening his hearing just in case. He doesn't detect any nearby suggestions of the killer, but the cloying scent of the vampire's weird, personal markers are in abundance. John wrinkles his nose.

They enter the bedroom to find the victim is again naked, spread out, with a painfully ragged bite wound at her femoral artery. He glances at her face and his lips thin with anger. She's so young. Barely twenty if he had to guess. His hands flex into fists and he bites his tongue.

Swallowing back his anger, he passes one more eye over the scene, then leaves the room to discreetly scent the flat. The pair entered, aroused, from the front door, obviously. The scent lingers against the back of the sofa and John runs his fingers lightly over a spot. The Other would've overpowered her, overwhelmed her. John can pick up traces of alcohol, too, so it's likely she was inebriated, which he would've used to his advantage. John shakes his head.

He catches a signature farther off towards the small kitchen, and he follows. There is a large window that sits just slightly off-kilter in its sash above the sink. Given how meticulous the rest of the space is, it's a red flag. Well, that and the smell. John leans in and inhales deeply, catching the Other's scent strongly against the wood. That's odd. He really must've been in a hurry if he exited out the bloody window. An idea hits John, and he quickly rushes to Sherlock. He's still examining the room and doesn't appear to have touched the body yet. Good.

"Yes?"

John gestures with a jerk of his chin towards the location. "I think the killer went out the kitchen window." Sherlock nods and glances down to the screen of his mobile again. His thumbs tap furiously and he mumbles something about her Facebook account, and his head snaps up. "Wait. The _window_?"

John nods and steps aside as Sherlock rushes past him, leaving John alone with the body. Knowing he only has a moment, he springs into action. John digs out the pocket knife he thought to bring along to this one and quickly, though gently, stabs the blade tip through the wound, doing his best to cover the teeth marks Sherlock would've otherwise seen. It was already a bit messy, and these marks will obviously be post-mortem, but it's something different and inconsistent with the previous wound. It'll be enough to throw Sherlock is the point. He frowns while he works, then when satisfied, folds the blade closed, uses the inside of his cuff to wipe away the smear of blood at the edge of the wound, and pockets the knife. He stands and keeps frowning down at the girl just as Sherlock swoops back in, raving about a timeline.

"He was pressed, John. Almost caught. He messed up and most certainly left through the window. If we're lucky there will be fibres." He sidles up next to John and looks down at him with dark eyes. John meets his gaze squarely. "Good eye, doctor," his voice rumbles. He might still be cross with John from earlier, but the man is physically incapable of ignoring John when he's being extra clever.

John smiles and briefly runs the back of his fingers lightly over his groin. "I do okay, sometimes."

Sherlock smirks, then spins away to critically examine the scene once more given this new information, before focusing on the girl on the floor. His eyes dart from point to point, voicing various deductions as he goes, and John peripherally registers the sound of Lestrade speaking outside the room. He dutifully hovers near Sherlock, patiently clasps his hands behind his back, and when he moves, so does his shadow. John's eyes automatically dart toward the movement, and he notices three droplets of blood that sit, barely seen, approximately two feet from the girl's hip, staining the ivory carpet. John arches a brow. This kid really was in a hurry. John purses his lips. A newborn growing even more careless isn't a good sign. The sooner he can take care of him, the better. He'll need to drop Sherlock soon so he can do his own investigating. Make his own little house call before this gets out of control.

On the floor, Sherlock has gone still, and he makes a kind of indignant squawk before frantically reaching into his coat pocket for the mini-glass. John watches quietly. "That... not right," Sherlock insists. He pokes and prods at the modified wound, and his head tilts left and right like a confused dog. He sits back on his haunches and stares.

"What's not right?"

"This. The wound, it's..." he groans and leans forward for another look. "He did something different. Why did he mutilate her further? Why would he do that?"

Lestrade takes that moment to enter, snapping gloves and nodding to John. "Tell me you've got something. It'd be nice to wrap this up quickly. Some of the guys are getting jumpy."

Sherlock stares warily down at the victim, frowning. Lestrade waits, and when Sherlock doesn't answer him, throws a questioning glance to John, who shrugs.

"No idea, mate. He's the genius, I'm just the eye candy."

Lestrade grins, and when Sherlock begins berating the _dead girl_ on the floor, John quietly slides out the room and down the hall. He pulls out his phone and sends a text to Adam. While he waits for a reply he keeps one eye on the people mulling in and out of the girl's flat just in case. When Adam responds, John sends an affirmative, pockets his mobile and returns. Sherlock is snapping at a tech about the fibres likely stuck in the windowsill, and John raises his hand to rub at his forehead. He makes a small sound of discomfort, wincing purposefully, which Sherlock notices, giving the tech the chance to scurry away and do his bidding. Sherlock quirks an eye at John, and John smiles self-deprecatingly. Sherlock arches the brow further.

"Headache," John says. He rubs at his temples. "I haven't eaten in a while, I guess."

Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes. "That's all?" John frowns. Sherlock sighs. "Fine. You may as well go get something, then. I'll be here a while."

"You sure?"

Sherlock flaps his hand at him.

"Should I get you something?" Sherlock scoffs loudly and returns to the victim's bedroom. John shakes his head and waves a weary goodbye to Lestrade and leaves.

In the cab on the way to Bayswater, address in his phone, John steels himself for a possible confrontation. He's not going to go in unless he's certain this kid is still out. He'll wait for Adam before physically launching any kind of attack. While John's sure he could take him, a newborn in a full-on bloodlust is a formidable force, and John would rather have the backup. For now, he wants information and to leave a message of his own.

Also, he really is starving. Won't hurt to stop by the club later to update Adam and have a little late-night snack before Sherlock gets home. He checks his watch and swallows a groan. Just gone one in the morning. Lovely.

The cab drops him off just outside the block of flats Adam had mentioned, and he takes a breath. There's an underlying scent of his quarry at the entrance, and John skims over the panel at the door, looking for the kid's name. It's scrawled in pencil, and John can just hear Sherlock's smug voice in his mind, before he shoulders open the, shockingly, unlocked door. He takes an ancient lift up to the fourth floor and slowly pads down a filthy carpeted hallway. Outside the door with the number indicated on the panel, John pauses and listens. Inhales. He's pretty sure there's no one home, so he checks the hall once more before jimmying open the lock and walking right in.

Inside, his lip curls at the meagre sitting room. The place is a complete tip, and the scents of dozens of people and their offensive odours linger faintly in the upholstery and drapes. It's probably a new residence for him, not meant to be permanent, and God only knows the kind of people who came and went before him. John walks carefully through the room, taking note of the lack of personal possessions. He decides to tackle the kitchen before the bedroom. There are no dishes in the sink, no indication of food on the counters. He holds his breath and dares to open the fridge. There's a half-full bottle of cheap wine and nothing else. Not even blood packs. John shakes his head and closes the fridge.

He backtracks and moves towards what looks to be the small bedroom to find a double mattress with rumpled sheets. A small IKEA table littered with expired tube passes and a few pound coins sits along one wall, and a shelf with a few shirts and trousers line another. It's just as sparse in here, and John's nose wrinkles at the concentration of his odd scent. His skin tingles and his heart rate picks up. It's against his nature to be in another's territory univited, and it's putting him on edge.

He moves toward the bed and sniffs. Other than smelling like it should probably be washed, the scent of the girl he recently murdered isn't apparent, so it's likely he hasn't been home yet. John closes the distance and picks up a pillow. He makes sure to rub his hands all over it as a nice little extra 'fuck you,' before moving on to the loo.

Inside, he finds the regular accoutrements of a young man on the prowl. Some kind of trendy shampoo he hasn't heard of, shaving cream, razor, toothbrush, etc. No other identifying objects are lying about, so he leaves and stands in the depressing sitting room and thinks. The moment this kid gets to the building, he's going to smell John. When he walks into his flat, he's going to _really_ smell him, and it'll probably set him off. It's a horrible breach of etiquette to enter another vampire's personal home without express permission. Of course, it's likely he doesn't know anything about the rules of etiquette for their kind, but his natural instinct will at least inform him that something is not on. John smirks. Good. His own personal scent is particularly strong, virile. Old. He'll know immediately that this is a warning.

But, does he just want to leave an anonymous warning, or should he be more explicit. He's not been impressed with his intelligence yet, so he doesn't _really_ think leaving a note telling him to firmly fuck off out of town will necessarily work. And now that his personal signature is all over the flat, John risks being stalked, and thus risks Sherlock.

On the other hand, if this kid does get scared and decides to leave, well, that's one less thing John has to hide from Sherlock. He really hasn't killed since the cabbie, and prior to that it'd been a long time. He's the soul of self-control these days. The frenzied, hungry days of his youth are long since gone. John sighs and taps at the notepad he keeps in the breast pocket of his utility jacket. _Oh, fuck it._ Might as well be explicit. Give him the chance. John tears a sheet off and scrawls a very specific, "I know what you're doing and if you don't get the fuck out of my city there will be consequences" kind of deal, and leaves it on the side table by the front door.

There. If he ends up not heeding John's advice, well, he really will have no one to blame but himself. And if he tries anything monumentally stupid, John will take pleasure in ripping his throat out with his teeth. And, on the very slim chance that Thomas questions him about anything, he can say he gave the kid a warning which went unheeded. No one can fault him a thing. John's mouth salivates at the thought of a challenge, and abruptly, his stomach rumbles. Plus, it's about time to scoot before the kid comes back.

He locks the door again, and exits just as easily as he entered. He strides out to the high street and catches a cab for Adam's before it can close. When he arrives, the same bouncer as before unhooks the red velvet stanchion rope as soon as he sees him. Hunger thrumming through his too-low veins, John barely takes in any of the last, desperate hangers on in the remaining crowd, for fear of absconding with one. He approaches the bar and tells the same youth from earlier to fetch Adam again, and when the bare-chested vampire arrives, John gives him a quick update. His old friend growls at the news of the murder and promises his assistance if needed. He also grins at the idea of leaving a note.

"Quaint, John."

It is a matter of minutes before John is introduced to the friendly Julie, who smiles and nods when Adam takes her hand and places it in John's. They are led to a private room upstairs, away from the thrum of the club, and John stares into her green eyes until hers go glassy and she tilts her head in invitation. He brushes his thumb over the pulse in her neck, leans in for an appreciative sniff, and gently sinks his fangs into her soft flesh. She sighs and melts against him, obviously at ease and familiar with the process. It's been a while since John has gone through this sort of process, and is used to having to charm his prey a bit longer. He forgot how easy it is in a place like this.

John wraps a supportive arm around her waist, and places a firm hand at her jaw to maintain the angle. He groans as her blood fills his mouth, and flows hotly down his throat. She's not one of those fantastic AB neg donors he'd sampled earlier, but she's a lovely, smooth A pos, which is just fine for what he needs right now. John swallows mouthful after mouthful, and when a tentative hand slides down his chest, John has the presence of mind to gently stop her advance. Not removing his mouth, he firmly places the hand safely at his shoulder, where it stays until he's drunk his fill. The moment he feels the itch of hunger has retreat, he immediately pulls back and seals the wounds.

Julie has slumped against him during the feeding, and now sleepily smiles up at him. John gently lays her back against the plush chaise they sit upon, and she curls up to rest, otherwise completely unbothered. John stretches, rubs his belly with satisfaction, and quietly closes the door behind him. Brilliant.

"You were right," he says as he's leaving with a little more bounce in his step. Her blood warms him from inside, and he feels the energy pulsing through him with a tingle.

Adam smirks. "I only pick the best." He rounds the end of the bar intending to see John out. "Do you need any packs before you leave?"

John thinks of his hidden stock at home, but he's got enough for a few days if he is unable to hunt. "I'm good, thanks."

Adam leads him out of the club, scents him again in goodbye, and John asks the cab driver to stop outside a chippy a few blocks from Baker Street. John hangs around just long enough to let the greasy scent of oil and fried fish seep into the fabric of his clothes before he heads home. Sherlock, bless him, requires a few extra steps to stay ahead of him, but he's worth it.

As he walks, he enjoys the sensation of a pleasantly full stomach and ponders the newborn. When he enters the flat, it's obvious Sherlock hasn't returned, so John sets about with a mug of tea and readies the flat for bedtime. He turns off lamps, stows random things left on the counter, unplugs the coffee machine. He very carefully brushes his teeth.

John is in his comfy jimjams, nearly dozing where he's propped against the pillows in their bed when Sherlock texts an hour later to let him know he's on his way home. With a groan, John putters to the kitchen and flips the kettle on to make Sherlock his own cup of tea. He taps a finger against his lips and decides not to dose it with anything tonight, though he does use the special blend of Camomile that always seems to make Sherlock drowsy. He stirs a slice of lemon in it to disguise this fact, because if Sherlock realises that's what he's been given, he'll dump it out and insist that he needs to stay awake to think about the case. Which John would rather he not do.

So it is, when Sherlock finally enters, muttering about inconsistencies, John meets him at the door, shushes him with a rather fantastic snog against it, and then places the mug of tea in his hands before he can protest.

"Drink," he says, nuzzling under Sherlock's jaw. The detective does so, blinking a little dazedly. John smiles against his skin and kisses his way down his throat, lingering briefly on the faint marks his hand left earlier in the night. Sherlock hums his approval of the tea while John slips the coat off his shoulders and hangs it on its hook.

He rubs his hands down Sherlock's sides, resting at his hips. "Don't suppose you want to pick up where we left off before we left, do you?" It's gone half three at that point, but he's still buzzing from his late dinner, and frankly, he could go for it.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns away to boot up his laptop. John sighs but follows after to drop a kiss atop his fluffy curls.

"I'm for bed, then. Don't stay up too long."

Sherlock vaguely nods, and John notes that it only takes forty minutes before Sherlock is yawning and shuffling into their room and dropping onto the bed behind him. Forgiven then. John smiles into the dark, wraps his fingers over the wrists that snake around his waist, and huddles back into the warmth of him. A cold nose nuzzles under John's ear and Sherlock sniffs.

"Fish and chips again?"

John's heart pulses with fondness.

"If you don't watch that I'm going to have to start monitoring your cholesterol intake."

It's the sweetest, most unexpected thing John could hear from his detective. It's a declaration.

"I know my limits, thank you. I'm a doctor, remember?"

* * *

 **A/N:** Wow. That was an unfortunately long break between chapters. Every time I have to write them arguing, I notice it more often than not blocks me up. I don't like confrontation. :/ Sorry, though.

Sex next time.

And thank you (as ever!) for your amazing comments!


End file.
